


Don't Pick It Up

by ACertainZest



Category: Castle
Genre: Angst, Episode Tag, F/M, Phone Sex, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-05-01 02:29:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5188718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ACertainZest/pseuds/ACertainZest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short post-ep for 8x06, "Cool Boys," based on a prompt received via Twitter: "Beckett-out-of-town, drunk-on-the-minibar, calling Castle for honest conversation/phone sex." Except I sort of omitted the honest conversation part.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Pick It Up

Castle had left the precinct not long after Slaughter, when staring morosely at his wife's empty office lost its charm. He went home to stare morosely around his loft instead. After gazing blankly into the fridge for a while, he decided he wasn't hungry and wandered through the bedroom to the bathroom, thinking he'd take a shower. It had been a long day with Slaughter and he felt a bit greasy, not just physically.

He was just stripping off his shirt when his new phone buzzed. He hadn't yet set up all the ringtones for his contacts, so he had to go back out to the bedroom and look at the phone to see who was calling.

Beckett.

He hadn't even gotten around to programming a picture, so all he saw was her name. Of course he didn't need a picture of her. She was burned into his retinas, into every part of him.

He picked up the phone a little reluctantly.

"Castle."

"Hi," she said softly. "Um, how's everything going?" Her words were a little blurry around the edges.

"Fine," he bit out, trying to keep his tone even, but it was getting too difficult. "What's up, Beckett?" He wandered out to his study and poured himself a shot of scotch, slammed it back while he listened to her breathing.

"What trouble did you get into today?" she asked, and he winced, wondering how much Esposito and Ryan had told her.

"The usual," he evaded, "nothing serious." Well, that was sort of true. It was all resolved, anyway. "How's your conference? Good minibar in the hotel?" He heard her give a little huff of displeasure and couldn't help smiling a little. He knew it would annoy her, the way he saw right through her.

"Is this what it's like for you on book tours?" she asked after a moment, and he could hear the sound of another minibar bottle being opened. He closed his eyes and sighed.

"Probably," he agreed. "Getting drunk on the minibar, sitting around feeling homesick." He took a breath. "Missing you."

"...'M not drunk," she muttered, and he could picture her so clearly, slumped on the bland hotel bed, tiny bottle in hand, her head and shoulders drooping in defeat. His heart twisted at the thought.

He remembered the last time he had gone on a book tour and called her from the hotel, tipsy and lonely. "Beckett, what are you wearing?" slipped out of his mouth before he could stop it.

A brief, sharp inhale from the other end of the line. For a long moment he thought she wasn't going to answer; thought she would simply hang up, leave him wondering yet again.

But she answered, slowly, reluctantly. "Your shirt."

Oh god. He sat down heavily on the corner of his bed -- their bed. His throat worked, but he couldn't get anything else through it.

"Your shirt and nothing else," she added after a moment. "It still smells like you." Another breath, and then, "I miss you."

_I miss you too._ "If I walked into that hotel room right now," he said, which was what she had said to him, during that last book tour, when he called her at the end of the day and asked what she was wearing. 

He heard her gasp, and knew that she was remembering it too.

Except, when she had said it, it was teasing, seductive. Now he was saying it and the words scraped his throat raw.

He shouldn't do this. He shouldn't. She had asked for space, and he was trying so hard to respect that. But ... damn it, _she_ had called _him_. She was drunk, and he was lonely. Damn it.

"If I were there," he said, and listened for her to gasp again, but it sounded a little more like a sob. He closed his eyes and breathed unevenly and listened.

"...What?" he finally heard, very quiet, watery. And a rustling noise that he couldn't quite place. He pictured her sitting back against the headboard, wearing his shirt. Oh shit, his shirt and nothing else. All of a sudden he realized that he was painfully hard, his pants constricting him tightly.

_Quit asking permission,_ Slaughter had said. And, okay, Slaughter was an idiot. But damn it, Castle was tired of dancing around his wife. Suddenly he felt so tired of being gentle with her.

"If I were there right now I would kiss you," he said harshly, wanting to stab the words into her, force them under her skin. "I would see you wearing my shirt, and I - and I haven't kissed you in weeks. I would want it -- your mouth -- so I would take it." He heard her breathing get louder, ragged and wet. "You would want it too."

"I would," she gave back, high-pitched and breathy. "I do. I would kiss you back."

He groaned, opening the button of his pants. He pulled the zipper down and knew she could hear it. She whimpered a little, a sound more of pain than pleasure.

"Are you touching yourself, Beckett?" he growled, releasing himself from his boxers. He slid his hand slowly along his length, listening to her struggle for control.

"Yes," she admitted finally, and he pictured her letting her knees fall open, giving herself permission. His breath ached in his chest when he thought about what she would look like, wearing his shirt, half-reclining on an anonymous hotel bed, open and wet, her fingers sliding along her hot flesh.

"If I were there I would push your hand away and put my mouth there," he said darkly, and now she moaned, a wordless cry that he had heard so many times in this room, under him, above him.

"Castle," she begged, and his hand moved faster, urgent. But he forced himself to slow down and keep talking.

"I haven't done that in weeks either," he went on. "I would want it, so I would take it. Take you. Push my tongue inside you." Her breathy whimpers spurred him on. "You'd be so wet. You're so wet right now, aren't you?"

"Oh god," she whined.

"Answer me," he demanded. He knew he was being unfair, selfish; taking advantage, perhaps, of her inebriation, her vulnerability. But damn it all, he didn't care. She could hang up if she wanted to. He knew she wouldn't.

"I'm so wet for you," she confessed, panting, gulping for air. "I miss you so much. I love you."

He chose not to respond to that last part. "If I were there, you'd be screaming right now," he said, low and fast. "I'd have my tongue on you and my hands up under that shirt, all over you."

"Yes," she cried out, and his whole body shuddered.

"If I were there right now," and she moaned again and he knew that the repetition of the phrase was helping to paint the picture in her mind. "If I were there, you would see and feel how hard I am." Muzzily he realized that he had gotten the tense wrong, but he was too far gone to mentally revise and figure out how to fix it. "You would beg me to be inside you," he rasped out, and she made that desperate whining cry that meant she was close, so close.

"Please," she whimpered, just like she would in the story he was weaving, "I need you, please."

"I would hold your hands down on the bed while I fucked you." His voice was ragged now, his control slipping. His hand moved faster, up and down his shaft, his other hand clenched tightly around the phone. He saw her in his mind, spread out for him, sweaty and begging, almost mindless with passion. "I would hold you down so you couldn't get away," he choked out, and heard her moan his name as she shattered, and felt his own release spurting across his hand and thighs.

A long trembling moment or two passed, and as his breathing slowed down to normal, he heard her again. Now she was crying, deep throat-ripping sobs that she probably thought she was muffling in the pillow.

"Beckett," he said hoarsely, feeling a sharp stab of guilt overlaying the deep ache of his loneliness. But damn it, _she_ was the one who had left. She had left, and he was still here. Still here, with a sticky hand and wet eyes. "Beckett, drink some water before you fall asleep. You'll have a hangover."

"Rick," she whispered, pleading.

"I love you," he said, and heard her breath catch. "When you get back, call me." Not a request; he made it sound like an order. _Quit asking permission._

"I will," she promised, and then, softly, "I love you."

"Water. Don't forget." He needed to clean himself up. He needed sleep. He needed his wife. "Goodnight." And he hung up.


End file.
